At Close Range Read online

  Praise for the suspense novels of

  TARA TAYLOR QUINN

  “Combining her usual superb sense of characterization with a realistically gritty plot, Quinn has created an exceptionally powerful book.”

  —Booklist on Behind Closed Doors

  “I was riveted from the first page to the last. Behind Closed Doors is a thoroughly enjoyable read.”

  —All About Romance

  “I could not put the book down; it is a character-driven, riveting story from beginning to end. Leave the lights on; Behind Closed Doors will scare you silly. I stayed up late into the night to finish, turning the pages at a rapid pace.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “With In Plain Sight, Tara Taylor Quinn delivers a riveting, suspenseful story…crackles with action.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  “Character-driven suspense at its best with rapid-fire pacing that makes you feel as if the pages are turning themselves.”

  —Hallie Ephron, author of Writing and Selling Your Mystery Novel, on In Plain Sight

  “This character-driven thriller will hook the audience from the onset until the final new beginning.”

  —Harriet Klausner on Behind Closed Doors

  “Behind Closed Doors is a powerful, riveting read that’s impossible to put down. Tara Taylor Quinn writes a believable story.”

  —Bookloons

  “Behind Closed Doors is a thrilling suspense.”

  —Authors After Dark

  “One of the skills that has served Quinn best is her ability to explore edgier subjects.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Dear Reader,

  We’re in Phoenix, Arizona. Young men are being brutalized. A judge is receiving death threats. And a woman and her young son are missing. Several baby boys have died, apparently of SIDS—but some people are beginning to wonder if that’s really the cause and they point to a pediatrician as the prime suspect. A larger-than-life scenario? Sure.

  But come a little closer. At close range, things can look very different.

  You trust the folks you’ve known and associated with for twenty years. You trust your most valued employee, your right-hand man. They’ve always been there for you. Or have they?

  At close range, religion isn’t always spiritual. Cops aren’t always good.

  And at close range, the person in the bed next to you might not love you at all.

  What people say isn’t always the truth—when you get close enough.

  And up close, what you see is only one perspective.

  At close range, you’re mostly alone. Nothing is clear. And fear awaits.

  Come a little closer….

  I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at www.tarataylor.com or P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, AZ 85216. Let me know what you think—and how you feel—about this book.

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  TARA TAYLOR QUINN

  AT CLOSE RANGE

  To Mindy Barney, whose intelligence, dedication and

  heart bring promise to a world that needs them, help to

  children who might otherwise be lost and cohesion to a

  family that loves you very much.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  1

  M embers of the Phoenix press filled her courtroom. Tension filled her gut. Maricopa County Superior Court Judge Hannah Montgomery leaned forward.

  “We are back on the record with case number CR2008-000351. Would those present please identify themselves?”

  Hannah heard the attorneys state their names for the record. She knew both lawyers well. Had been listening to them drone on for six days now in this trial that seemed as though it would never end.

  But she wasn’t looking at them.

  Her eyes locked on the dark-suited man who’d just slipped quietly into the back of the room. There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about him. He was twenty-nine years old. Average height. Average weight. His straight brown hair was thick and short. Wholesome. Businesslike.

  Hannah couldn’t seem to pull her focus away from him. Because she’d been dreading this moment for the entire nine months she’d been administering this hideous case? If so, the nondescript man would have been a disappointment.

  Surely an icon, a godlike figure to his followers, should stand out more.

  He met her gaze and nodded, his expression properly respectful. Taking a seat in the second row, arms at his sides, he glanced around with an air more curious—more childlike—than controlling.

  Jaime, Hannah’s bailiff, cleared her throat, catching Hannah’s attention.

  Robert Keith, attorney for the defense, had reintroduced the young man at his side, Kenny Hill. Mr. Hill, wearing a navy suit today, made eye contact with the jury.

  Just as he did every time he was introduced.

  The eighteen-year-old had more bravado than years and sense combined. As had his Ivory Nation compatriot who’d sat in that very seat twelve months earlier, in a trial almost as long as this one. That kid, another young “brother” in Arizona’s most influential white supremacist organization, had cried in the end, though, when Hannah had sentenced him to twenty years for breaking and entering, kidnapping and weapons theft.

  Her judgment had been overturned on appeal while Hannah was taking family leave, mourning for the adopted son she’d lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. A mistrial had been declared and that young man was free.

  Sweating beneath the black folds of her robe, Hannah glanced at Keith. “You may call your next witness.”

  “The defense calls Bobby Donahue, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Donahue.” She forced herself to look at him again. And to look away. “Please step forward and be sworn in.” She indicated Jaime, who’d risen from her seat to Hannah’s left.

  “Please raise your right hand and state your name.” Jaime’s voice didn’t falter, and Hannah made a mental note to congratulate her youngest employee. Jaime had been nervous at the prospect of facing this dangerous leader.

  “Bobby Donahue.”

  Bobby. Not Robert. Not Robert G. Just Bobby.

  Bobby, who couldn’t appear that morning, in spite of the subpoena, due to a Wednesday church service he’d officiated without absence for more than five years. Bobby, who’d offered to appear in her court at 1:30 that afternoon instead.

  In the interests of justice and saving the state the money it would cost to enforce the original subpoena, Hannah had approved the request.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth…”

  Jaime’s voice faded as Hannah watched the witness, getting too clear a glimpse of the man’s eyes. Ghost. God. Infallible. Unstoppable. All words she’d heard applied to Bobby Donahue over the years.

  “I do.” Donahue regarded Jaime with apparent respect.

  He’s vindictive. That was the warning Hannah and her staff had been given by other court employees, the press, even the honorable William Horne, Hannah’s social companion and fellow judge who’d officiated far more Ivory Nation trials than Hannah.

  While he had yet to get caug
ht at any offense, Bobby Donahue never allowed a wrong to go unpunished, a disloyalty to go unavenged.

  Or so they said.

  And Hannah, having fought her way off the streets and into college, didn’t compromise the law for anyone.

  Dr. Brian Hampton was not in the mood to cooperate. Especially with a reporter. And dammit, why wasn’t Hannah answering her phone? She’d said she was staying in her chambers for lunch, preparing for the afternoon session of a trial that was taking far too much out of her.

  That last was his assessment. Not hers.

  Not that he’d told her so. As a friend he’d earned the right to speak frankly with the beautiful, blond, too-smart-for-her-own-good woman. But he’d also learned when it was best for him to keep his mouth shut.

  Hannah Montgomery had mastered the art of independence.

  Right now, he needed her to answer the private line that rang at her massive cherrywood desk.

  When his call went to voice mail a second time, Brian shoved up the sleeve of his blue dress shirt with barely controlled impatience, glancing at his watch. And stopped. Hell.

  Where had that hour and a half gone? Last he’d looked, it had been barely noon. And now it was quarter to two?

  He’d only seen…

  Brian paused. Counted.

  Okay, he’d seen seven patients in the past hour. Seven patients under four. Which explained the missing hour.

  The explanation didn’t help him at all.

  He’d had a message that morning from a polite Sun News reporter who wanted to talk to him “at his earliest convenience.” As long as Brian’s convenience happened sometime that day—otherwise he was going to print his story with a “no comment” from Dr. Hampton.

  His story. That was all. No hint about the content. Or even the topic.

  For Brian, a man who spent his days with people under the age of twelve and his nights largely alone, a meeting with the local rag was not a comfortable proposition.

  And what could they have on him anyway? His biggest offense was an inability to keep track of time, arriving either very early or very late—no prejudice either way—to just about every appointment he’d ever had.

  As much as he tried to come up with even a parking infraction—or an unpaid speeding ticket—there were none.

  He hadn’t had his stereo on in weeks, didn’t have anyone around to yell at, hadn’t thrown a party since graduating from med school. And the only woman he’d slept with in the past year was his steady girlfriend, Cynthia, a twenty-seven-year-old single mother, so an exposé of his wild lifestyle was out.

  Of course it was possible, probable even, that they wanted him to corroborate a juicy story about someone or something else.

  The only juice he could think of was the glass of cranberry he’d gulped that morning.

  Still, the thought of the four o’clock appointment he’d scheduled unsettled him. Brian did enough public speaking on behalf of his newest passion—the fight against SIDS—and he’d been misquoted enough to be wary of talking to the publication known for making mountains out of molehills that didn’t exist.

  This was a time when a man called on the help of his friends.

  Friend.

  The woman who was well connected enough to know, firsthand, practically every Sun News reporter in the city.

  Where was his judge when he needed her?

  “Do you know this man?”

  “I do.” Bobby Donahue identified the defendant.

  Robert Keith’s next questions were rote, but necessary to establish a fair trial. And a fair judgment from a jury who’d been sending Hannah pleading glances since the first day of testimony. That was when prosecutors described the sodomy and three-hour beating death the nineteen-year-old victim had suffered, allegedly at the hands of kind-looking Kenny Hill, whose affluent parents were sitting on the bench directly behind him. Right where they’d been every time their son’s case had been on the docket over the past many months.

  The victim, Camargo Cortes, was an illegal immigrant and, had he lived, would have stood trial for statutory rape of the seventeen-year-old daughter of the newly elected Arizona senator, George Moss.

  When pictures of Cortes’s body had been shown, Hannah had had to excuse two jurors to the restroom to be sick. At the request of the defense, she’d later dismissed both of them.

  She wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances that might result in a motion for mistrial. With luck, no one would have to repeat the past six days, to see the things that those present in the courtroom had seen.

  With luck, Kenny Hill would be put to death.

  Brian worked through the half hour he’d allowed himself for lunch. Three-year-old Felicia Summers had had a sore throat on and off for more than a month. He wouldn’t be overly concerned except that the child was underweight. And had already had her tonsils removed.

  He didn’t even want to think about leukemia. Or any other serious condition. Certainly didn’t intend to alarm her parents at this stage. But he’d ordered blood work, just to be sure, and went down before his two-thirty appointment to get the results.

  A day that had been diving rapidly now sank completely.

  “Mr. Donahue, where did you and Mr. Hill meet?”

  “At church.”

  “How long have you known each other?”

  “Most of his life. His parents and I have attended the same church for more than ten years.”

  With a short nod, Donahue acknowledged the older couple sitting, hands clasped, on the front bench. The corners of Mrs. Hill’s trembling lips turned slightly up, before she lowered her gaze. Her husband, a bit more successful at hiding intense emotions, nodded back.

  Both of them spent most of their courtroom time staring at the back of their only son’s head.

  Character reference questions continued for the next forty-five minutes. Hannah attempted to show no reaction to the jurors who continued to look to her for guidance. If she believed this witness, they would, too.

  And if she didn’t…

  This was a jury trial for a reason. It was not her job to decide this particular verdict. She was here to officiate the process. To allow or disallow testimony. To apply the law when attorneys, in the name of winning, veered away from it. Or challenged it.

  She was here to ensure that the defendant’s rights were upheld.

  They were talking about possibly taking a man’s life here. A young man. Who deserved to die if, indeed, he’d committed the horrendous acts that had ultimately left another young man dying an atrocious death.

  “Where were you on the night of March 9th of this year?”

  “That was a Sunday,” Bobby Donahue said.

  Robert Keith nodded, his shoulders squared in front of the witness box. “That’s right.”

  The chief prosecutor, Julie Gilbert, narrowed her eyes.

  “I was in church.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you tell the court why you remember this so specifically?”

  “Once a year we have a joint Sunday-evening meeting, combining the usual men’s Sunday-night gathering with the women’s Wednesday-morning assembly. It’s always the second Sunday in March.”

  “What hours were you in church?”

  “The service started at five and ran until almost midnight.”

  “With a meeting that long I’m assuming people come and go?”

  “No. The doors are locked the entire time. Not to keep people in, but to prevent interruption. Our services, particularly that once-a-year meeting, are sacred to us. That’s why I remember the date. These special gatherings are very emotional and interruption breaks the spirit.”

  “But the doors could be unlocked. Someone could become ill. People would need to access the facilities. Surely, if a person was careful, he could leave without disturbing you.”

  Donahue shook his head. “The sanctuary is self-contained. There are bathrooms at one end. And a small kitchen, too, with an att
ached nursery. I’m the only one with a key.”

  Horrified, Hannah kept her eyes on the file in front of her. She’d heard stories about the infamous white supremacist “church,” but never in this much detail.

  “So if someone comes late, say, maybe they have a flat tire, they miss this once-a-year, spiritually enriching meeting?”

  “Of course not,” Donahue said. “One of the brethren always volunteers to keep his phone on vibrate for just such emergencies. Members are notified of the number the week before.”

  “Then you’d interrupt the meeting to unlock the door?”

  The witness remained straight-faced and serious. “Hymns are strategically placed throughout the meeting to allow for any interruptions.”

  “Do you remember whose cell phone was on vibrate that night?”

  “Matthew Whitaker.”

  Hannah recognized the name from the defense’s witness list. The man was slated to be called to the stand next.

  “And did Mr. Whitaker notify you of any such calls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who called?”

  “Kenny Hill.” Of course.

  “At what time?”

  “Five forty-five.”

  The time of the attack, which had been announced during opening arguments, and ad nauseam since, had been established at between seven and ten on the evening of March 9th.

  “Did he say why he was late?”

  “There’d been an accident on the freeway.”

  Glancing at Julie Gilbert, assuming the prosecutor would be writing a note to verify that there was record of a crash on I-17 on the date and at the time indicated, Hannah was disheartened once again. The woman’s pen was still.

  There was no guarantee that the accident had been reported to the police, but even a mention of no record could significantly weaken Donahue’s testimony.